Assassin's Blade
by The Pointed Hat
Summary: A young girl learns that the only person she can depend on is herself.
1. Chapter One: Part 1

(( Urgh. Another revamp. I suppose you could call it a re-revamp. At any rate, I think I'm finally finding my groove. It got thrown off somewhere back there in 2005.))

Rain; that was all Jergan could see from his post at the gate. Rain that poured from the sky in torrents, rain that sloshed down the keep's walls and puddled at their bases, rain that found its way into the finest of cloaks and soaked a man to the skin. Jergan hated it. He huddled in the little wooden shack that was meant to keep the worst of the weather off of him, and marveled that it was still standing in a storm as bad as this one. The wind – though it was a constant this far North in Hardorn – seemed doubly angry tonight; it drove the droplets of rain before it like an aggressive sheepdog. It changed directions as often as a sheepdog might, first driving the rain westward, then south again, where it splattered water through the door and into the sodden guard's face. Unfortunately the lord of the keep had never allowed a door be added to the shack. He had insisted that a man who could close himself in was a man who could neglect his duties, and there were times when Jergan readily agreed. This was not one of them. What with the howling wind and an occasional burst of thunder, Jergan doubted that any man out here in this post would be able to sleep.

Somewhere out in the distance, a streak of lightning lit the sky. Jergan reminded himself to turn his eyes away from the source, lest his night vision be temporarily lost. He'd been set out to watch for a pair of riders, come all the way from a holding on Tyrant's Route. While the guard himself had no real care for who the guests might be, he knew that his master _did_, and if one wanted to live long enough to retire from a military career and raise grandchildren, one did not disobey Master Fitral, the lord of this keep and the man whose guests these mysterious riders would be. Nevertheless, it was no easy task for the man to remain entirely focused upon his duty. Especially not when the lightning made all number of odd shadows spring out on the landscape, and the wind sounded entirely too Otherworldly for comfort.

There was a leak in the roof of the shack that let water drip onto the small coal brazier he had been allowed for warmth. The continuous sizzle-spit noises the water made as it touched the hot metal sounded exactly like the evil hiss of a creature one would expect to find in the Otherworld, too. Jergan shuddered, and pulled his cloak more tightly around his body, even though it was already soaked through in most places. He was thankful – and not for the first time that evening – that it was a woolen cloak, for wool was the only fabric that stayed warm while it was wet.

Thunder snarled off in the distance, and for a moment Jergan thought he heard another, odd sort of noise within it. For a moment, he dismissed the sound as part of his imagination, and went back to feeling sorry for himself. Then the noise came again. Carried on the wind and distorted by the rain, he couldn't quite make it out. It was with a sigh that he begrudgingly admitted to himself that the best way to figure out the source of the peculiar sound was for him to investigate it himself. The hood of his cloak slopped over his head as he drew it up and went out.

No sooner had he left his shack than a gust of wind tore through the keep and threatened to tear the poor fellow right from the wall he was stationed on. He ducked low and scuttled to lee side of the wall. Again, the wind seemed to carry with it a strange sound, but this time Jergan thought he could make out parts of words. He peeked over the edge of the wall in time to see a rider cup his hands around his mouth and shout upwards, "Halloo-oo-oo!"

"Kernos' teeth!" Jergan crowed, and headed for the ladder down to ground level. The riders had arrived! Who knew how long they'd been out in that weather, how long they'd been forced to stand in it while Jergan had been wishing he were in a warmer place! So hurried was he that he nearly fell off the ladder on the way down, cursing and sliding and eventually skipping the last two rungs and jumping down into the mud. In this weather, even the packed earth of the keep's main courtyard was a boggy mire. "The man-gate!" he called to the guards that had the privilege of a sturdily-built stone hut near the gate crank. "Open the man-gate!"

The man gate was a door carved within the larger bulk of the main gate, designed to let a man through on foot in occasions exactly like this one. It was lined in metal and barred twice to prevent breakage in the event of a siege, and was wide enough to allow a burdened horse to walk through, if his head was lowered.

Thanks to the rain and wind, all Jergan could make of the men that came into the courtyard was that they had to be damned tired from their journey. They walked with their shoulders hunched and their feet dragging, which – he wagered – was not just because of the storm.

"Lucky you made it here in one piece!" he called over the howling wind, shouting despite the fact that he was less than a pace or two away from the man in the lead. He directed them with shouts and wide arm gestures toward the stables, where a door was cast open and light poured out into the courtyard. The wide square of golden light was like a beacon to the horses, who managed to find some last reserves of strength and pick up their paces.

* * *

With a handful of straw, Brendan scraped the last of the mud from his pony and reached for a blanket that had been provided to him by a stable hand. One stall over, his fellow rider was busy caring for his own mount. Both of them were soaked to the skin, and had been for some time. It was as though the storm they had been riding through was following them, and often times throughout their journey, the young man had voiced his concerns to his partner, but neither of them – superstitious as they were – wanted to consider their being cursed by a weather witch. After an attempt at waiting out the storm and three days' time wasted, the boys had accepted the inevitable: their journey was going to be a wet one.

"Don't forget her belly, Magnus," the older boy said as he leaned against the railing of the neighboring stall. The boy that stood within it was grooming a tired old mule, whose docile personality and utter lack of any sort of mean spirit was a perfect match for the younger boy's inexperience. As the family's only working animal, it had cost them a great deal to let their nephew take her. They had consoled themselves that they wouldn't need her during the winter months, but Magnus knew how important the old creature was to them. He'd done his best to care for her along the way, with Brendan's help. Brendan's pony, though, had been loaned to him from the folks at a neighboring farm. They owed the Shonar family a great deal, after being helped through the winter after their crops had burned in a summer lightning storm.

"And don't slack."

Magnus hadn't any intention of failing to groom his mount as completely as he was able, but he knew by now that _saying_ so to his cousin Brendan would likely get him a wallop on the side of the head. Instead, he grunted to show that he had heard what the older boy had said, and kept working. Ginny, the mule, was buried nose deep in a bucket of warm mash. By the time she and the gelding had made it to Fitral lands, one could only tell the shades of their coats by removing the saddle and looking at the bare spots that were left. When Ginny had caught scent of other horses and clean hay, she had displayed the only stubborn bone in her body as she half dragged her rider into the dry stables.

Thankfully, when Magnus finally finished grooming the mule his exertion had warmed him enough that he no longer minded being wet, except for the uncomfortable chafe he got from the rough homespun fabric of his trousers. He tossed the blanket over Ginny and tied it loosely across her chest and beneath the belly, for though she would be secured in the loose box for the duration of the storm, Magnus knew her well enough to be certain she'd get herself into a tangle if he didn't. Brendan gave his cousin's handiwork a once-over, nodded in satisfaction and only then let Magnus close the stall door. A stable hand chose that moment to appear behind them and clear his throat.

"Lord Fitral will arrive momentarily," he informed them, and resisted the urge to examine the animals himself. As it was, he continually glanced around and behind the boys as though he expected to find something terribly wrong in those stalls. "He wishes for you to make yourselves comfortable in the mud room, while the servants bring you a change of clothing.

Brendan sighed with relief. "Thank you." What little clothing they had brought for the journey was now completely soaked through, despite the waxed canvas they'd been wrapped in. That driving rain and wind had gotten into every unprotected little crack and crevice it could find; only the salted meat they had brought along had survived the journey, in no small part because it was bone dry to begin with. At this point it had the same consistency as stewed squirrel: stringy, but chewable. He draped an arm over Magnus' shoulder and together the two of them followed the stable hand to the mud room.

There was a small wood stove in it, thank the gods, and it had been recently lit and filled with wood. Though it hadn't chased all of the cold from the small room yet, it had taken away the bite of chill. They accepted the rough sacking they were presented with and began to scrape mud off of their own clothing and boots, which were then removed entirely and handed to the servant who had come in with spare tunics and house shoes. The tunics were large and hung nearly to the floor on both boys, but they were dry, warm and soft, and that was all either of them cared about. The house shoes were canvas things with leather soles, worn and soft after so many uses by so many other feet. It was likely they were a part of the wardrobe provided to servants and young fosterlings, for they were made of inexpensive fabric and served a child just as well as a good pair of shoes would, provided he was indoors while he wore them.

In the same efficient manner as the soiled clothes were taken away and the new ones presented, another servant promptly appeared carrying a tea kettle and two mugs. She set them atop the wood stove to keep warm, bobbed her head and scuttled out of the mud room without another word. The boys hardly waited for the door to close behind her before they greedily snatched up the mugs and poured them both full. Then, hands wrapped around them to soak up every drop of warmth, they settled onto a wooden bench, sipped their tea, and waited in companionable and weary silence for the Lord of the House to arrive.


	2. Chapter One: Part 2

Lord Pyrte Fitral settled into his plush, wing-backed chair and gazed into the fire. Once in a while, a gust of wind would tear over the chimney and make it howl, but thankfully the flue just before the opening into the fireplace proper prevented the weather from disturbing the flames. The light they gave off seemed to bathe the man in luxury; they enhanced the rich red-brown of the mahogany furniture, and the wine-red tapestries on the wall. It made the brandy in Pyrte's glass seem to glow.

At this point, supper had been over for a good while. The sounds of servants scuttling, dishes clanking in the kitchen and folks coming and going down the halls had died roughly a candlemark ago, and Pyrte and his fellows – a few lords from other local holdings that had been caught indoors by the foul weather – could now enjoy the sounds of a crackling fire and their own voices in privacy. One of them, a young upstart who was meant to take his father's place as Lord, was currently pacing the room like a caged animal. Pyrte had thus far managed to ignore the youth, and thanks be to the gods that the floors here were covered in so many plush rugs, else the constant tread of the man's booted feet would have irked Lord Fitral's temper. As it was, he cast a lazy glance toward the lad and frowned. "Why do you pace so, boy?" he demanded gruffly, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.

The boy came to a stop. He fiddled with the glass in his hands, still as full as it had been when a serving man had poured it for him. "This weather, Milord," he replied, after an uneasy glance out of the nearest window. The thick, bubbly glass didn't give him much of a view of the outdoors, but it did nothing to stop the flashes of lightning that brightened the sky at intervals. "It's uncanny. I've prickles up the back of my neck."

"Ah, come off it, lad," an older gentleman – the youth's father – said from his place in a beaten leather chair. Here and there, stuffing poked out of the upholstery, visible even beneath the gentleman's wide body. He turned toward Pyrte apologetically. "The boy's superstitious as they come," he explained. "His mother's doing, I'll wager. She still follows some of the old ways. Got him thinkin' there's evil 'round every corner."

Around them, the others chuckled, sympathizing with old Lord Garnir even as they remembered their own women-folk at home. Garnir's son, Hiram, stopped pacing, obviously bristling over his father's comments. "Now, see here, you old goat," he jabbed an accusing finger in his father's direction, "You name me ONE time you've ever seen a storm this bad last as long as it has, and I'll eat my hat!" Silence followed his comment, and as one, the men in the room turned toward the room's only window. Suddenly Hiram's uneasiness didn't seem so far-fetched.

The door burst open.

"Da!" There was a little girl standing in it, dressed in nothing more than her night gown. She had stopped dead a few paces inside the door, as though she'd intended upon running straight for her father, but thought better of it when she'd spotted the others in the room. She looked around at the others, then cast her eyes down at her feet and waited.

The others, as surprised by the intrusion as Pyrte, turned their heads toward their Host and waited to see his reaction. One or two of them had their eyebrows raised nearly to their hairlines, and Hiram was caught between laughing at the child or at the expressions of the gentleman in the room. Of them all, Pyrte was the only one who seemed at all irritated with the child. His face was pulled into a frown, the brandy glass hung almost forgotten in his hand; the muscles of his jaw worked tensely. For a few, brief moments, the tension in the air was tight as a harp string. The other Lords watched Pyrte with apprehension, for they – perhaps better than any other of Fitral's peers – knew of their friend's explosive temper.

With some effort, Pyrte schooled his face into a mask of patient exasperation. His fellows breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Kayatice," he said, with feigned kindness coloring his words, "What brings you here - and at such a late hour, no less?" He placed the brandy glass on a small table next to his chair, and got to his feet.

Kayatice clearly recognized the underlying current in the tone of her father's voice, for she seemed to shrink in stature, though she neither moved from her spot near the door, nor ceased looking at her feet. She fidgeted long enough to form a response in her head, seemed to think better of it, and then raised her eyes defiantly to meet her father's.

"You TOLD me to come and tell you when those riders got here," she reminded him forcefully. "I came in here to tell you…. But I forgot to knock on the door." That last came out as a mere squeak, and the child looked at her feet again. "I'm gonna go to bed now!" She was gone before her father could think of anything else to say to her.

Pyrte throttled down his irritation, turned his most professional smile upon his fellows, and excused himself from the room.

He smelled the stables long before he reached them. As was custom long ago, manors and Keeps like this one were built with the stables butted right up against them. When all that separated a wing of the Keep from the stables was a thin wall and a door, a man wasn't forced to head out into unpleasant weather just to greet guests or look after his horses. Of course, it meant that the wing closest to the stables became servants' quarters and other utility rooms, but Pyrte had weighed the pros and cons of this and found that the cons were far outweighed.

As he walked, it occurred to him that he had next to no idea what to expect on the other side of the door. All he had received from the family he'd been in communication with these past few months had been basic descriptions of age, height… None of which would make any real comparison to actually seeing the boy for himself. He liked to imagine he'd be coming face to face with a boy who had seen his fair share of work, one who knew his place around men of rank.

What he found when he opened the door, however, severely disappointed him. Pyrte disciplined his face into a mask of pleasantness. "You must be the Shonar boys," he greeted what appeared to be a pair of drowned rats masquerading as young men. The larger of the two got to his feet and thrust out his hand. "Brendan and Magnus of the Shonar holding, Sir." Pyrte clasped the boy by the forearm and gave it a mighty squeeze, and his estimation of THIS one, at least, rose a few notches when the boy returned a firm grip himself.

"You boys braved quite a storm," he enthused, taking stock of the situation. The smaller boy – which he assumed was the one he was supposed to be taking in – belatedly rose to his feet when he realized that he had been presented to the Keep's master. Draped as he was in the simple clothing they'd been given, he seemed pitifully scrawny. "I trust my servants saw to your wellbeing?"

Brendan nodded vigorously. "We're dry, clean, and we've something warm in our bellies. I apologize for arriving at such an hour. The storm soaked through what shelter we could find, and our sup—"

"No, no. Think nothing of it. I'd hate to be out in that gods-be-damned storm, myself." In this, at least, Pyrte was being honest. "Please, let me escort you to a room. We can talk more after you've had a meal and a night of sleep to refresh yourselves."

It was a room in servants' quarters, housing nothing more than a pair of cots with a trunk at the foot of each, and one small window on the far wall. No doubt, Pyrte thought, it'll have been one of the nicest rooms they've ever slept in. He stood outside the doorway while he ushered them into it – mostly because if they had all three tried to cram into the room, there wouldn't be enough space to turn around in. "I hope you don't mind the lodgings," he drawled, "But I was not expecting you for at least another day." And with another of his condescending grins, he closed the door on them and left.

"Why didn't you tell him that these clothes are _itchy!_" Magnus wanted to know, plopping unhappily onto the cot he had chosen for himself – not that there was any real difference between the two in the room. They were both hardly more than linen bags stuffed with straw and lavender, resting atop planks that had been fastened to the walls. Brendan seemed blithely unaware of this fact, and nestled himself into the mattress, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. Magnus looked around himself dubiously. "And this bed feels like—"

"The first soft, dry thing you've had the opportunity to sleep on since we left?" Brendan interjected, watching his cousin pout over their sleeping arrangements. "We could be out there in the rain, still, and frankly I'd rather sleep in the stall with Ginny than out in the mud another night."

"Well, yeah, but your mum at least has feather mattresses, and—"

"My mum lives on a farm with a million chickens. Of COURSE she has feather mattresses! Now if you keep spouting whines from that mouth of yours, I'm going to have to find the cook and ask her for some cheese and a pair of wine glasses. Go to sleep." He didn't dare voice his thoughts to the little boy who was going to be staying here at the keep for a good portion of his childhood, if not clear into adulthood. It would not do to make the lad feel uneasy about his stay, and anyroad, Brendan figured that he was certainly NOT in any condition to make a clear judgement about Lord Fitral. Sure, the room they were given was in the servants' quarters. Sure, their beds were straw and lavender – but it was dry, it was warm, and if Lord Fitral hadn't provided them with clothing out of his own closet, well, at least he'd given them more than the potato sacks they'd dried off with to clothe themselves. And before Brendan could think much more about what their welcome meant, he was fast asleep.

Brendan awoke when an errant beam of sunlight shone directly through the only window in the room and struck him right in the eye. After several sleepy attempts to swat the offending sunlight away from his eye, realization seeped into the lad's foggy brain and made his eyes jump open. Sun! Though he half expected to glance out the window and find a clear blue sky, he discovered – when he finally managed to roust himself from bed and actually take a look – that dark and heavy rainclouds still scudded across the sky. Here and there the sun actually broke through, and this was what had reached Brendan through the glass. It wasn't ideal weather, but at least that accursed rain was gone! He lobbed his pillow at Magnus' head.

"Wake up, you! There's SUN out there today!"


	3. Chapter One: Part 3

As is often the case with small children, Kate's intentions to wait until the riders were dry before sneaking down to spy upon them were foiled by a soft bed and deep pillows. When a maid tugged the bed curtains back and threw open the window shutters, Kate jerked awake and realized what had happened.

"Did they leave already!?" she demanded, leaping out of bed quickly enough that it took the maid by surprise, for Kate was always loathe to leave the warmth of her bed on chilly mornings. She settled the girl into a chair with some difficulty, and began working the night-time tangles out of the child's hair. Thankfully news of the arrival of two riders last night was commonly known by now, and the maid had little trouble guessing who the 'they' young Kayatice was referring to were.

"Na," she said around a mouthful of comb, while her skilled hands tried to make a braid in the fidgety child's hair, "They'd only just arrived 'round midnight, an' Milord Fitral sent 'em straight to bed. Like as not, they'd been plumb tuckered by th' time they touched their heads t' pillow!" She tugged harshly on the hair when Kate attempted to get out of her chair.

"Ow!" In the polished metal that served as the child's mirror, the maid could see her young charge's scowl.

"None o' that, young lady; didn't anyone ever tell you? You keep makin' faces like that one, and they'll stick. Forever!"

"Will not!" Kate continued to scowl to prove her point.

"Oh, no? You've seen old mister Travan, ain'tcha?" The maid waved the comb at Kate's reflection. "When 'e was a lad, 'e made faces just as terrible as yours, an' then one day – poof! Stuck. An' not even th' Healers could reverse it. Imagine his luck! An' never did marry nor have children, all on account of that puckered old face!"

Travan was one of the old groundskeepers, who delighted in keeping lawns manicured, flowerbeds fertilized, and all of the shrubbery and trees groomed to perfection. He had a shriveled, wrinkled old face that always seemed contorted into a scowl, and gods help anyone who so much as breathed erroneously upon one of his plants! Rumor had it he was once a fairly popular Herb-Wizard, though no one could tell, and he wouldn't say. Throughout the maid's story, Kate's eyes widened. The scowl left her face.

"That's a lie. He's just ugly 'cause he's MEAN!"

"Ach. You'd be mean, too, if you were ugly as he."

When Kate turned her eyes downward to consider this newest bit of information, she didn't see the maid smirking at the back of her head.

* * *

Some time later, after breakfast had been taken care of, Kate made her way toward the private quarters of her tutor. The day's lesson was mathematics – a subject which Kate despised with nearly every fiber of her being. As she made her way toward the Tutor's suite – a set of rooms the man had requested be used entirely for teaching - she dawdled near the open windows, occasionally pausing to gaze out of them as something caught her fancy. Here, a bird who had decided to take advantage of all of the worms that had surfaced in the storm. There, a tree in the courtyard that had been split by lightning, with several men hacking away at the wood. Their axe blades caught what little sunlight they could and – from this distance – seemed to sparkle. Two doors away from her tutor, Kate heard voices coming from outside. She hurried to the window and looked out, just in time to see her father and two strangers – the riders! – pass below.

"… our own messengers, he can write home as often as he cares to," her father explained at the three of them walked, boots and cloak hems mired in mud. She tried to make out the facial expressions of either of the strangers, but from her aerial perspective all she managed to see were the tops of their heads. The taller boy's hair was chestnut, a little like the colors she saw on the horses in her father's stable. The shorter boy's hair was sandier, a little like it had been blonde at some point, and was now stained with dirt. Certainly she could expect that; after all, they had just ridden here through that horrid weather.

"Though while the winter keeps us snowed in, I'm afraid I cannot allow my men to venture out into the countryside. You understand, of course." She saw the head of the taller boy nod.

"You are kind to your men," he was saying. "I have heard of lords who force their men out into deadly weather conditions with no care for their hides. My cousin is fortunate to be accepted into your household, Milord."

"I only wish Milord Fitral's _daughter_ knew how fortunate she was," a voice to Kate's immediate right startled a squeak out of her. She whirled to face the source, and found herself staring at her tutor's hawkish glare. "She would certainly make a habit of being _on time_ to her lessons for a change."

Kate winced and ducked her head as she hurried away, hoping he'd forgo the customary cuff to the ear – just this once. He didn't, of course, though she noticed that he hadn't smacked her quite as hard as usual. Seth, too, had been peering out of the window to get a better glimpse at the boys who'd ridden into the Keep in the middle of the night. When he returned in a swirl of red-and-black robes, Kate didn't mention that she saw him looking.

"We will continue where we left off last week," he informed her as he pulled a large tome from a shelf in his room. He thumped it down onto the large wooden table that filled the distance between themselves. There was a page marked with a length of ribbon, and this he pulled upon until he could open the book to the place they had stopped at last time. Kate groaned, and began reciting basic addition drills from memory, thus beginning one of the longest mathematics sessions she had ever completed in her short life.

It wasn't until just before mid-day meal that Kate was freed from the attentions of the tutor. She burst from his room like a cat let from a sack, and made a beeline for her bedroom. As always, she gave herself a mental and physical shake to get rid of the odd feelings that always crept upon her in the man's room. It smelled odd in there, but aside from Seth's odd choice of incense, Kate couldn't quite pin what made her feel so strange after a long stay in those rooms.

She burst through her bedroom door and cast her things – today, Seth had given her a small book he called a "Primer book" that had been made of cheap paper and contained sample mathematics problems she was supposed to complete for him and present at her next mathematics lesson – onto her bed.

"I don't believe that is where you are supposed to keep your books," a gentle voice admonished, and for the second time that day, Kate found herself caught off guard.

"But, Mum, I wanted to g—"

"Go see the new arrivals, I know. But they have been here nearly a full day already; I don't believe that they'll be gone in the time it takes you to be a responsible young lady." Eavan was in a chair near the fire, her pale skin made paler by the wan light that came through Kate's window. Her usually fragile body seemed more so after so long indoors; Kate often thought of her mother like an exotic house plant that wilted at the first sign of a change in the temperature. Fall was always the worst for Eavan. But she showed no signs of pain or discomfort when she got to her feet and helped her daughter put her things away. "I will take you to them myself," she promised, "But let us get you into some of your older clothes. We know how frustrated 'Tildy gets when you dirty your nice things."

Matilda – called 'Tildy when a younger Kate had been unable to pronounce the woman's name correctly – was Kate's nursemaid, and the very same that had gone to such lengths to comb her charge's hair earlier that morning. She DID have a habit of grumbling every time Kate came in with dirty clothing, and the grumbling turned into scolding when it was one of Kate's nicer outfits. Kate grudgingly admitted that she did not want to be the subject of her nursemaid's objection and allowed her mother to dress her in an older set of skirts and over-coat that were already stained from adventures in the muddy courtyard. Coupled with a pair of beaten shoes, the outfit could withstand another downpour like the one that'd come last night without rousing 'Tildy's anger. Together, Eavan and Kayatice headed outside, hand-in-hand.

They caught up with Pyrte and the strangers just as the trio was approaching the Sword Master's practice yard. Even though it had been turned into a veritable swamp after the onslaught of rain, the Swordmaster had no intention of letting the opportunity to practice outdoors pass him by. Currently every student was sparring outdoors, absolutely covered – head to toe – in mud. Often times Kate had watched the boys at work, wishing she would be allowed to take part in lessons like the others could. Today, however, she was glad that she wasn't being forced to jump, run, tumble and roll around in the mud. Think of what 'Tildy would say!

Before Eavan could raise her voice and get her husband's attention, Pyrte bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Stallen!" he barked, waving a hand. "New boy's here! Come and give me your opinion of him."

Kate watched as the Weaponsmaster pushed his way through the swinging wooden practice blades and managed to get to Pyrte without being hit once. He was red-faced from at least a candlemark of shouting over the clank of sword and shout of children, and there was a fine mist of sweat on his forehead. For a man who taught weaponry for a living, he was considerably heavy-set, and coupled with a growing patch of baldness on the top of his round head, he didn't seem altogether as intimidating to Kate as most of the fosterling boys thought.

"Stallen," Pyrte was saying, "This is Magnus Shonar. He's our newest fosterling." The smaller boy – called Magnus, Kate knew now – found himself thrust forward into the gaze of the Weaponsmaster, who asked him a series of questions about his experience with swords, bows, and various other tools a boy of humble birth might have been expected to know. In the end, Stallen seemed satisfied with what he heard, clapped Magnus on the back, and left the group to go back to his work. Eavan chose that moment to interrupt.

"Pyrte," she began, and then did not wait to be acknowledged, "Your daughter and I have come to greet the newcomers." And when it appeared that her husband was about to object, she added smoothly, "A terrible thing, if you forgot your manners and failed to properly introduce us, don't you agree?"

It would not take a mind reader to know that Pyrte was irritated, if not over his wife's interruption, but by the fact that she had been bold enough to remind him of his manners in front of company. He attempted to save face by replying, "Had I known our daughter was already finished with her lessons for the day, I would have brought the boys straight to you, my dear," and favored her with a not-smile that both women had come to recognize over the years.

To Kate, it was a warning that another misstep would earn her a hefty punishment. To Eavan, it meant there was going to be a 'discussion' (that ironically involved not one shred of discussing) later.

Despite the baring of teeth, Eavan brought her daughter forward. "Introduce us, then." The look Kate's father shot at her mother made Kate cringe inwardly.

"Brendan and Magnus of Shonar," he half-growled, "I am pleased to introduce to you my wife, Eavan, and daughter, Kayatice."

Kate and Magnus were of a height with one another, and for a heartbeat they stared one another down. Kate mentally weighed him, calculated the odds that he'd end up being another bully to avoid while out of the direct supervision of the adults.

Magnus, however, was caught by the odd, piercing quality of the girl's eyes. He found himself wondering how a girl acquired such piercing silvery eyes, such a sharp gaze that it made him feel she was looking into his soul. He felt his skin sprout "pricklies" all-over, and had to look down at his feet before he could chase them away. A rather pointed elbow jabbed him in the ribcage; Magnus shot a glare at his cousin before he realized what the older boy wanted.

"Pleased to meet you," he grumbled, rubbing his side and avoiding the direct glances of either of the women, lest they see how out of sorts he felt and ask about his health. Eavan graced them with a smile that could melt an iceburg, then she and her daughter took their leave as silently as they had come.


	4. Chapter Four

_It was an idle threat, wasn't it?_ Pyrte wondered as he paced back and forth. Eavan had been sent to bed with the assistance of a few of her handmaidens, and he had stayed behind to brood. _She wouldn't _actually _leave – she may not make the trip!_ Branches tapped the window, like the bones of a skeleton hand. Outside, the wind picked up, and only served to darken the man's mood. If Eavan spent even a single night out in that mess, he knew for certain that he'd never see her alive again.

The woman's sickness was only what the Healers called a 'wasting sickness,' in that its effects made her body waste away at the disease wore on. So far they had only been able to soften the symptoms. There had been some worry that it may have transferred over to their daughter while still in the womb, but the healthy set of lungs Kate had displayed at birth dispelled their fears. Back then, there had been talk of what they would do once Eavan got better. Now, they barely made plans beyond a fortnight. Of course, their child was unaware that there was anything wrong, for by the time she had been old enough to understand such things Eavan had already been pale and weak. Her mother's status was simply a constant for Kate, despite the fact that it was a miracle the woman was even alive now.

He decided that she wouldn't make the trip, knowing it might kill her - but the threat was still troublesome. To all outward _appearances_, he cared for his wife. She was strong-willed and stubborn, determined to make a place for herself at her husband's _side_, rather than behind him. She had been a stunning beauty in her youth, and her family dowered her handsomely. Over time, he had tired of her arguing, her constant insistence that she be included in daily decision-making around the holding. At first he had flat out refused her, and then given her small tasks that he thought were below his reach in the hopes of silencing her, but that had only increased her insistence.

In a way, he was glad she lacked the strength to oppose him any more. She had eventually limited herself to the care of their daughter and simpler tasks of sewing and embroidery – far more suitable pastimes for a woman of quality. Looking back on it, Pyrte was glad he had taken certain 'precautions' as to the likelihood of her recovery.

He paced across the room again, and paused to stare into the fire. His spies informed him that the local nobles though him a brave man, caring for an ailing wife and a young daughter on his own. They praised him for being steadfast and loyal, even when Eavan was no longer able to produce an heir. The simple fact of the matter was that as long as she was alive, he could not remarry. Pyrte wasn't exactly young any more, either. The form and muscle he had in his youth was steadily being replaced by a layer of fat, as much as he would have liked to avoid it, and unfortunately he was bound by the gods to love and cherish his wife. None of this would have really mattered, though, if Eavan had managed to produce male offspring! Then, Pyrte would have simply sent Eavan off to warmer climes 'for her health,' and let her live out her days away from him. He could have trained their son in any way he saw fit. It was a pity he had to handle things this way, and even more so that their only child was female.

"I'm not getting any younger," he said aloud, with a glance toward an elderly gentleman who had been ignored unto this point. "And I will not break the bonds of my marriage to take a mistress. A weaker man might, but I am far too disciplined for such things."

The gray-haired fellow nodded his head. "We are fortunate for your strength, milord," he replied, "It is truly a shame that your wife is in such a weakened state."

Pyrte gave him a sharp glance. "She will not live out the winter."

* * *

At the foot of the bed, Brendan was putting on his boots. "Look," he continued, ignoring the sour expression on Magnus' face, "I can't stay here forever. I think I've already worn out my welcome, and anyway, my father needs help around the farm before winter sets in." His meager things had been packed, his and Magnus's ponies loaded, and the groom was waiting for him in the stables. Dawn had brought a breath of chill with it, and hints of frost on the damp grass. "Besides, if I don't leave now, I'll be snowed in here all winter!" 

Magnus didn't think that was a very bad idea. "But I'm the youngest one here!" he protested, not that Brendan was any closer to his age, but at least he was family. "All of the older boys will pick on me 'cause I don't have any weapons experience." This elicited another hair tousling from Brendan, which made Magnus cringe.

"Then I suggest you practice hard!" the older boy laughed, slugged his cousin on the arm. "I'll give my mum your regards, and tell my father you're better off here where you'll get your ears boxed for daydreaming!" He dodged the pillow that hurtled at him. "And there's always that little girl to play with," he added – and dodged the boot that sailed at him this time.

"I don't play with _girls_." After all, girls liked dolls and tea parties. Magnus was a _boy_, and _he_ liked swords and bugs! As they headed out into the hallway, he made sure to look as manly as possible.

"Maybe not yet," Brendan's good-natured laugh followed, "But someday you will."


	5. Chapter Five

Seth did not stop working at the sound of a knock on his workroom door. Whoever it was, and he was sure it was Berthards, would wait until he was finished with the task at hand. It required a certain level of concentration, this little task of his, and one wrong move would foul the whole of it up. Seth _did not_ want to have to start from scratch – or, for that matter, have to find himself another victim. Once he had finished carving his reversed pentacle into the woman's living flesh, he turned and opened the door.

Berthards tried to hide the cringe that cropped up. He glanced to the scene behind Seth, and then swiftly toward his feet. "I have little time for dawdling," Seth reprimanded, and when Berthards didn't raise his eyes, remembered that he would have to raise his voice. The high-pitched screams were so much a part of his routine that he forgot about them, more often than not. Berthards, however, was still very well aware of them. Seth repeated himself, loudly this time.

With a start, the elderly fellow glanced back up at his master. "Lord Fitral wishes the task complete before winter's end," the message was passed swiftly, and the old fellow hoped he was loud enough to be heard in the din. The only reply he got from Seth, however, was a nod. And then – thankfully – the screams were cut off. Not by death, but by the superior construction of the workroom, and the shields his master had placed within it. The door had been slammed in his face. Relieved that he had not been punished for interrupting, Berthards turned and fled the scene.

Sliding easily back into the working-trance he had interrupted for the sake of the servant, Seth began his work again. Carefully, he cut into the flesh, inflicting just enough pain to elicit power, but not enough to cause the woman to lose consciousness. Her blood poured freely, running down arms and legs to collect in a vat beneath her body. It was made of stone, expertly carved by magic into a perfect half-sphere. As he worked, he drew power from her – molded it, shaped it into a form that was acceptable for his personal use, and then locked it away into his core.

Eventually the screams faded, replaced by a deathly silence so profound that it made Seth's ears ring. Now that it was dead, he had no further use for the body. It could be burned and dumped into the river, or dragged into the mountains for the bears to find – he cared not which option was chosen. What he did have use for, however, was the blood. He managed to collect some of it into an obsidian bowl, whose surface was so smooth and polished, it could only have been crafted by magic.

Within those shields, he focused, reached out with his power and sought a familiar form. The surface of the blood rippled, and when it settled, an image appeared. The face of Pyrte Fitral looked back at Seth, though Pyrte would have no way of knowing that he was being watched. There was a sinister glee in the Blood-Mage's face; glee that he was still so entirely in Lord Fitral's confidences. Pyrte was a man with great authority and connections in Court, it was true – but he had never guessed that the mage he thought he was controlling would be the one pulling the puppet's strings!

Seth watched as the servant Berthards returned to Pyrte's chambers. He bowed after being allowed in, and gave Fitral word that he had carried his message as instructed. Seth only had to watch a moment more before he was certain that the little worm wouldn't reveal information about the scene he'd walked in on. He dismissed the vision with a wave of his hand, and the image rippled, faded and became mere blood again. There was a long, wooden staff by the door, made of a naturally-shaped branch of gnarled Ash, twisted and contorted as trees often were in this harsh climate. Set into the head of the staff was a large, dark amethyst, nearly flawless and perfectly spherical. Such a magnificent beauty as this one was rare, especially one so large and flawless. As a focus stone, he had never found a better specimen, and it had cost him a great deal to bring up from the wilds where the Black Kings made their homes.

With it, he left the room and shut the door behind him. There was no need to lock it for safety; the shields allowed only one man to cross the threshold. At the time he had been allowed into Pyrte's confidences and his household, the room had been nothing but the last in a series of suites and antechambers, designed to house notable guests. At Seth's insistence, those rooms had been assigned to him. Now, he used the innermost for his workings. The shields there were tapped into a small node beneath the complex that no one was aware existed. He had thanked many dark gods for its presence with several sacrifices; without that node, his work would be painfully hard to keep secret. A secret of this magnitude would be difficult on any level, but at least with these shields in place, he had enough time to finish working his well. Barely.

* * *

"I don't want it to be suspicious," Pyrte turned from his place at the window. "If the Healers suspect poison or murder, they will first search this Household for the culprit. It must be done carefully, and without the use of toxins or force."

"It will be difficult, milord," Seth kept his eyes humbly fixed on a vague point in the distance. Pyrte viewed eye-contact as a threat, much like a feral dog. "Magic leaves traces. Blood magic, more easily recognized ones."

"It _must _be done," Pyrte countered. He had no working knowledge of magic, other than the simple fact that there was a man within his employ who could do marvelous things with it. "Understand me, Seth. I will not tolerate weakness, not from myself, not from you. If this job costs you your life, so be it."

Seth bristled, but – wisely – maintained his calm demeanor and outward expression. "There is one way," he admitted after some thought, and no small amount of inward arguments on whether or not he ought to assist the egotistical nobleman. "It is possible to cease the function of the heart with a small spark of magic." Just as possible as restarting that very same organ, as Seth had learned through trial and error. It was _so _useful when dealing with victims whose life force had gone before he had finished with them.

"And the Healers will not detect it?"

"They should not know to look for treachery, milord. A weakened heart would be expected in one so ill." He was careful not to list names, or even relations. There were too many chances that, in this drafty old building, words would echo. Even greater was the chance that a servant might linger outside the door and overhear their conversation. Rumor spread like wildfire amongst the servants. It would be too costly and too dangerous to kill the entire staff in order to stop an information leak. "It may come to pass that we needn't act at all. The winters are harsh; she grows weaker each day."

"True. I will wait until mid-winter, in this case. If the woman is not dealt with at that time, we will resort to more direct methods."

Seth knew a dismissal when he heard one. "It will be as you command, milord." In a flurry of swirling robes and long hair, he turned to leave and let a servant close the door behind him.


	6. Chapter Six

The room was large, perhaps even larger than the dining hall in the main part of the castle. The floors were a high-quality wood that had been sanded and polished until an infant could crawl on it without fear of splinters. Along the wall across from the set of double doors, a mirror of outrageous proportions caught the light that filtered down from clerestory windows and reflected it throughout the room. Even a youngster like Magnus knew that the cost of mirrors as flawless as this one would be more than most peasant families made in their lifetimes. It was old, as evidenced by the slight discoloration around the edges, but well cared for, and a person could see any location in the entire salle without turning his head, as long as he looked into that mirror.

Thanks to the ice that frosted the ground this morning, weapons classes were to be held indoors – for the most part. For this, Magnus was grateful. He could at least warm up and get his blood flowing before he was cast out into the biting cold to finish his routines with the rest of the boys in the class. The weapons master was a strict fellow, and prone to bouts of moodiness when his joints ached, but all in all he had turned out to be rather likable. Of course, most of the other boys complained about him as soon as he was out of earshot, but Magnus was no stranger to hard work, and in fact – he liked the gruff sorts of praise he got when he completed a task correctly. Often it was no more than a grunt or heavy-handed slap on the back, but it was praise nonetheless.

He had worked hard since Brendan had gone, in order to earn his keep around the castle. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as a burden, even though he was quite sure his family had paid a tidy sum of money to see that he had a bed and regular meals. He was another mouth to feed, back on the farm. It wasn't often that a middle-class family like the Shonar's received the honor of one of their own being accepted into a nobleman's homestead. In a way, Magnus supposed he was in debt to his aunt and uncle. He certainly hoped they were proud of him for the progress he was making! In the month that had passed, old Stallen had promoted Magnus from errand-boy with occasional archery sessions, to a young trainee in his daily drills. It was something he would have loved to write home about, if the weather weren't so foul that it was keeping the messengers away. Way up here in the mountains, winter came early and stayed far into what most folk in the flatlands would call spring.

For the moment, the Salle was empty, though it still smelled of sweat and leather – and probably would until the walls themselves disintegrated and nature took over what the weather didn't. It was comforting, in a way. An earthy sort of smell that he was familiar with, and though it wasn't quite home, it was warm here, and dry, and he was generally left alone. He was startled from his musing when the door squeaked open and a little head peeked in. Magnus caught sight of the stormy eyes and dark hair just before it popped back out. Before the door slammed closed, he called out. "Hey! Wait!" There was a pause, and he could almost sense the trepidation coming from the other side of the door. "You're letting the warm out," he added. That seemed to make up the girl's mind. She stepped neatly inside and heaved the heavy door closed.

Kate wasn't wearing much in the way of winter clothing, he noticed. A long skirt and lightweight shirt hardly seemed enough in this chill, and he recalled that his aunt would have a FIT if any of her children had gone out in this weather in anything less than a woolen sweater, trousers and heavy boots. She stood in the doorway and stared at him quite as though she'd never seen another child before, and he felt slightly uncomfortable beneath that gaze. Those eyes were sharp, and somehow he felt as though he were having his soul measured and weighed by the gods themselves. Squirming a bit, he looked down at his feet. She said, "I'm not s'posed t'be in here." Her tone of voice was conspiratorial, and when he glanced up, she was grinning. "I snuck out 'cause Da's in his study," she added, clearly proud of herself for this feat.

"How come you can't be out here?" Magnus wanted to know. He saw no problem in letting anyone come out here, as long as there weren't classes going. Someone could get injured after walking into a sparring match unawares.

" 'Cause I'm a _girl_," Kate grumbled, nose wrinkled. It made Magnus smile. "An' Da says girls aren't allowed to use swords." She glanced longingly at the rack of wasters on one of the shorter walls of the building.

"I bet you could!" Magnus ran over to the wall, eager to impress someone with his newfound sword 'mastery.' "I can show you. Watch." There was a smaller sword on the wall, lighter in weight than some of the others and clearly designed for some of the younger trainees to use. Magnus took it from its rack. "You just get a good sword, and put on armor, and then we battle!" He swung the waster around in what, he thought, was a very fancy manner.

As far as Kate was concerned, Magnus's statement was an invitation. She ran to the wall and found a waster that was a close match to the one that Magnus had taken. "I challenge you to a duel!" she shouted, thrust the waster at the boy in her best imitation of the stuffy noblemen she'd seen challenging each other for the chance to court various women.

"Oh yeah?" Magnus twirled his waster and nearly dropped it. "I accept!"

With a mighty swing, Kate staggered toward Magnus, intent on getting a strike in, and tripped over the hem of her skirt. The waster clattered noisily to the floor – masking the telltale squeak of hinges that accompanied the opening of the Salle's main doors. As she reached for her waster, Kate caught sight of the man by way of his reflection. Her eyes went wide; waster forgotten, she scurried out of the Salle without looking back.

"Pick up that waster," Stallen ordered, after a slight pause in which he took in the scene before him. Magnus hurried to obey, but knew by now that making excuses to the weapons master was as dangerous as trying to best him in a spar. He re-racked the wasters and turned to face the man, humbly lowering his eyes and muttering an apology. "Milord Fitral's orders," said the weapons master, "No women allowed in the Salle."

Oddly enough, there was a hint of something else in the man's voice that Magnus couldn't quite place. "Yes, sir," the boy kept his head down and scurried out of the salle at a jog, but by the time he broke away from the work yard, Kate was nowhere to be found.


	7. Chapter Seven

[ Author's Note: Chapter re-written! This version's shorter, but I think the quality is better all around. Hopefully I'll get over this writer's block and get on with the storyline soon.

Pyrte usually enjoyed his afternoon meals in the saddle, surveying his property and making sure that the serfs that worked it were marginally content with their lot. He didn't offer them much more than the promise of protection in the event of a siege, but he also did not micro-manage their daily lives. Aside from taking up too much of his valuable time, it made the peasants bristle. It rubbed their fur the wrong way, so to speak. Today, thanks to the slight drizzle that had started up several candlemarks after dawn, Pyrte was taking his meal indoors, next to a cozy fire. There was an ache in his leg from a long-ago break that he did not care to admit existed, and anyway, he doubted there would be much need for him to make the usual rounds himself. After all, half of ruling was being able to effectively delegate, and his servants and assistants were all disciplined individuals. They'd get the job done to his liking – or else.

So, he mulled over the day's "to-do" list in front of the fire with a cup of mulled cider to keep him company, and it was in this position of repose that the Weaponsmaster found him. He tapped gently on the door to the study before he opened it, and stepped briskly into the room when he saw that Pyrte was not occupied with any obvious matters of business. "I thought you should know," he began, when Pyrte shot him a questioning look, "That two youngsters were in the salle this morning, horse-playing with the wasters."

Pyrte studied the broad man for a few moments. "I hardly think that this was worthy of my personal attention, Stallen. I trust you handled the situation accordingly?" A raised eyebrow punctuated the sentence. Stallen cleared his throat in an uncharacteristic display of uneasiness.

"All but one of them, Milord," he replied, and though his expression didn't visibly change, his voice gave away his uncertainty. "I didn't think it was my place to punish her."

"Her?" Now, Pyrte's attention was snagged. His other eyebrow rose to join the first, closer to his hairline.

"Kayatice, Milord."

The eyebrows lowered and the mouth became a thin, straight line. It was an expression that Stallen knew all too well – and one that he had come to dread. Grunting inarticulately, the man considered this news with no small amount of displeasure, and – just when Stallen began to wonder whether to stay or go – he said, "You have done the right thing, informing me of this. Never doubt that. No man or woman is above the law, and especially not my daughter. We must serve as an example to others, and lead them with our good image – not with rule breaking and foolishness." He still had a mug in one hand, though in light of this news it was most likely forgotten.

Before Pyrte could continue, Stallen interjected. "I thought it wise to inform you, Milord. But if you'll excuse me, I have matters that need tending to." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the salle, hoping that Pyrte would take the hint and dismiss him altogether.

"Hrm." Another inarticulate grunt. Pyrte's dark eyes glanced toward the window, where rain still drizzled down the other side of the bubbly glass. He raised a hand, waved absentmindedly at the Weaponsmaster, and set his mug down. "Don't let me keep you, Stallen. I thank you for coming to me with this matter." And before anything else could come up, Stallen bobbed his head, ducked out of the door and hurried down the hall.

He wondered, as he stepped out into the drizzle and headed for the safety of the salle, if he'd done the right thing. Stallen had seen men and women fighting side-by-side and neither of them worse for it. He had seen battalions comprised entirely of females win border skirmishes, and some of the keenest marksmen (markswomen?) he'd known were girls that'd been hunting and riding since they could stay in a saddle. Why Milord Pyrte had taken such pains to ensure that no woman ever set foot in his salle with the intention of _learning_ there was a mystery. Oh, it was no secret that the man was a misogynist through and through – but _why? _That was the real question.

"Maybe I jes' don't want to know," Stallen said aloud, and then chuckled. "Sounding like a right Herald, you are," he said to his reflection, "Talking to no one in particular, out'a the blue and all." Amused with himself, he shuffled off into the storage room, in search of anything that needed doing. After all, he'd made the excuse to come out here, and if Pyrte came looking for him, Stallen wanted to have actual work at hand – just in case. As Kayatice would soon be reminded, Pyrte Fitral's temper was short, and prone to violent flares at the least provocation.


End file.
